


Dreams in Dust

by TheInternationalAffair



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, Immigration & Emigration, M/M, New York
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInternationalAffair/pseuds/TheInternationalAffair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Edited the names.)<br/>In the early 20th century, progress lingered on the lips of every metropolitan dreamer alike. Yet for Eiríkur Ólafsson, a recent export from Iceland, the only thing lingering on his mind is the how to find exact location of his half-brother Nils. But as he loses himself within the cultural melting pot of New York and his mind in a mysterious young boy he finds in the dark alleyways of Chinatown, will Eiríkur be able to climb out the The Capital of the World in order to find a world of his own?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction: Empty Stomachs before Empty Minds

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, TIA/Megu here! So you'll have to excuse me as this is my first and so far only HongIce fic I've written so far, and most likely my first multichapter fic. I'll try to stay as true to the times and as true to the characters as possible, and hopefully surprise, delight, or perhaps even scare you throughout. (Kidding about the last one, though). So please have patience upon and I do hope you enjoy it! I'll be playing around with magical realism, so I assure you that Iceland/Eiríkur isn't high. 
> 
> Right. Cast of characters+names used (updated July 2015):
> 
> Iceland: Eiríkur Ólafsson  
> Norway: Nils Landevik
> 
> is all you'll need to know for now~
> 
> Heads up, there may or not be some adult content coming up in the following chapters (I will add tags/warnings accordingly)
> 
> (Also, I apologize for any anachronisms or inaccuracies OTL)

Flip. Flip. Flip.

“Four, five, six, seven…”

Slam. Clink. Clink. Smack. Clink.

“Huh,…. seven… dollars. And seventy cents. You made it by ten.”

Clink. Smack. Clink. Clink. Slam.

“Yeah, you barely made it this time, kid,” grumbled the tenant as he stood up from the seat and flicked some coins around in his palm. “Think you can catch up next week?”

“I…I have no guarantees,” Eiríkur replied quietly, trying to fondle with the strap of his bag as discreetly as possible.

The man looked up at Eiríkur suspiciously before throwing his head back to let out a few hearty chuckles. “No need to be so worried about it, I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with the cash. You’ve hardly been in for long these past few weeks—I figured a lil’ kid like you’d be working hard.”

Pulling out a drawer, the man tried to whistle old showtunes through his long, wiry mustache before closing his fist around a few spare coins. “Here, open your hand, Oh-loff-son.”

Eiríkur tried not to cringe at the man’s horrible pronunciation of his name as he stretched his palm out slowly.

“There, that’s a little extra.” The man pressed a few cold coins into Eiríkur’s palm with a grin. “Buy something nice for yourself; today’s a good day, and you wouldn’t want to waste this on a bad one.”

Dropping the coins delicately into his bag, Eiríkur nodded. “T-thank you,” he enunciated, forcing himself to speak a bit louder.

“Anytime, Oh-loff kid! Have a nice day!” The man waved him off, and Eiríkur knew that this was the time to open the door and leave the building before his tenant changed his mind.

Upon hopping down the last step to the streets, Eiríkur turned around and looked up at the building looming over him. Given, he had seen far taller structures in this area of New York, but in comparison to the small, wooden, hut-like homes that he had grown up in, these “tenements” seemed big enough to be the “castles” that Nils would often describe to him as a child. Meanwhile, the other habitants seemed content with calling the buildings “dumbbells.”

The young man bit his lip, suddenly reminded of what he was here for. Right. Nils. He had come here six months ago to find his half-brother, and six months later he found himself rooming with the tall shadow of a Swedish man, a rather weary-eyed Bulgarian, and a very busy (and slightly suspicious) Italian on the tenth floor of a concrete eyesore. Progress had done him well.

And progress was the only word he heard on the streets of New York these days. Anything black, bulky, and capable of producing soot was hailed as progress. Anything that seemed capable of producing a fatal electric shock to an unsuspecting passerby was also progress. All in all, progress was a very confusing concept to Eiríkur, or at least it was when those around him discussed it over coffee and petit fours every morning. As such, Eiríkur often tried to ignore these shallow discussions in favor of finishing arbitrary, small-paying jobs that helped him keep up with the growing rent.

Eiríkur looked into his messenger bag and sighed, counting out the coins left over from paying this week’s rent and the gift from his tenant. He would have just enough to buy some additional grains and tomatoes (not that he particularly liked tomatoes; rather, he had heard better things about bribing than progress, and for now it seemed to prevent the cranky Italian in Eiríkur’s room from pushing Eiríkur out the window), but not enough to finally buy the blood sausage and fish he had been looking forward to trying since he came here.

The seafood here wouldn’t have been as fresh as the food he ate back at home, but over half a year was more than enough for him to forget how herring and cooked blood tasted like. Besides, Berwald was a reliable resource for finding Scandinavian delicacies in the endless labyrinth of New York City. If Berwald thought a store or stand sold delicious capers or soaked its herring in the perfect brine, Eiríkur knew that he would enjoy it too.

For once, however, Eiríkur wanted the chance to go out and buy these nice things for himself instead of constantly asking Berwald to save extra pieces for him to try. Berwald’s cold stare was often lost in translation to Eiríkur and, fellow Scandinavian or not, Eiríkur would have preferred not to push those boundaries. Especially not when they had to share the same bed.

Perhaps, though, it would be better to save the money. Who knew what part of the country Nils Landevik had taken over by now? And who knew how much Eiríkur would have to pay in process of getting to that part of the country? In any case, what the Icelandic boy was more concerned with was surviving New York City as is, and that in itself had proved be as difficult a challenge as tracking down Nils was. So far, having barely enough money to even buy protein offered no assistance in the least.

It was at this point that Eiríkur’s stomach grumbled, signaling that Eiríkur focus on matters at hand instead of matters out of reach. Eiríkur sighed and pocketed the coins before anyone else had the chance to bump into him. Nils would probably have to wait a bit longer—that is, if Eiríkur even made it out of here in the first place.

And with that, Eiríkur turned left and began weaving seamlessly through pedestrians in search of a pushcart or a vendor –just like the crowded metropolitan streets had taught him to do months before. The wind blew back Eiríkur’s hair in ribbons and his hurry made it easier for him to ignore any dust blowing in his face. Eiríkur could have sworn that a couple people had called out some slurs as he elbowed past them, but Eiríkur had the more pressing matter of an empty stomach to deal with before he could deal with empty minds.


	2. Diamonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I've updated a (still very short) chapter 2! I'd like to thank my friends at Hetaplay and the Internet for any research/ficcing help, and I hope you enjoy the next installment!
> 
> -TIA/Megu

Eiríkur paused next to a brick building, grasping for some sort of support as he tried to regain his breath. Blurs of people became blurs of blurs, blocking Eiríkur from seeing the sky. He had apparently gotten too good at pushing past parasols and ornate walking canes. So good that he forgot to look where he was going. The young man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to get a sense of what part of town he was in. After a few breaths, Eiríkur could gather that he didn't know where he was. After a couple more breaths, a dead air silenced the hustle and bustle of the streets. Eiríkur opened his eyes and looked down to find himself standing on a river of broken glass.

His heart stopped, and his expression went flat. His eyes traced the shards of shimmering crystal blue and cloudy green around and back again, only to find it branching out in columns along where the ends of sidewalks used to be. Glass, glass, and more glass. All Eiríkur could think of now was the crystal trail of glass as the noisy backdrop of a city hub faded into a cold stillness. Now unable to feel the rough, hard bumps of red brick, Eiríkur found himself looking for a new place to put his hands on, his feet carelessly treading through the trails of broken bottles and a clear liquid strewn across the ground.

It was only a few steps later when Eiríkur found himself determinedly strolling through the shards, not caring how many pieces stuck to his shoes while he trudged past nuggets of medicine bottle black. Eiríkur was looking for something now, whether he was aware of it or not. He was looking for something, and though he didn't know what it was, he knew where.

Eiríkur Ólafsson was searching two years into the past, and the only way he could get to his intended destination was through this haunting trail of memories. Memories of coming home to broken glasses his mother left in a pile on the floor, too tired and fed up with having to clean up a mess that wasn't hers. Memories of standing woodenly next to his brother Nils' door, listening for signs of life and perhaps signs of change if he was in the mood for it.

Memories that he had locked away in a suitcase when he decided to go overseas in search of Nils after the day he left. Eiríkur had brought a couple of pamphlets to read on the way there, and the catalyst of his decision to journey was tucked away in the left pocket of his vest. It was one of those often discussed “Dear America” letters that described in great detail all the glittering streets paved with gold and buildings of diamonds.

And now he stood. He stood here on streets of diamonds and buildings hiding gold, and it didn’t feel like anything astounding or breathtaking or ethereal. It just felt… different. It felt sort of big. Too big for Eiríkur to explore, and too big to even bother remembering. Too big for someone so small.

So Eiríkur returned his focus to the glass trail, nearing a familiar shadow that washed over his feet as he stopped at a limp figure on the ground. Its chest rose and fell, its breath seeming to gasp for one more chance. But at what?

His hands shaking a little, Eiríkur stumbled a bit before kneeling down to take a closer look at the figure. He blinked a couple times and soon found himself unable to consciously distinguish that the figure was wearing, and exactly what it even looked like, for the matter. Eiríkur frowned and carefully rolled the figure over to puzzle out its facial features.

The figure opened its lids to reveal a pair of cloudy blue eyes.

Eiríkur froze. Rising up and staggering back a little, he looked back at the figure one more time before running off to somewhere. Anywhere. He didn’t care if it was the markets, the tenements, or that sketchy part of town that the Italian visited and Berwald often warned him about. He just had to get out there, two years forward to the present where he was finally away from it all.

Somewhere between these blurs, Eiríkur figured, there would be somewhere safe. Somewhere that wasn’t flooded with rivers of glass and the stinging memory of those cloudy, dull blue eyes. Eyes that were once alive before their owner drowned in that very river, eyes that Eiríkur was looking for, but at the same time would rather forget.

He kept running and running, his own eyes paying more attention to the feet he had to avoid stepping on than the people who walked with them. The sidewalks he passed slowly grew dustier and dustier, and the chatter around me faded into an unfamiliar chorus of sharp, melodic singing. Around him there was a sickly sweet medicine-like smell in the air and next to him a large, chipped wooden sign. Eiríkur stopped to try and read it, but found the dots, lines, and curves to unfamiliar for him to understand. It wasn’t English, and it definitely wasn’t Icelandic. Or Danish, for the matter.

Giving up on this particular sign, Eiríkur looked around to find something recognizable so that he could figure out what it was. But every sign had the same vertical, rectangular scrawl that Eiríkur was apparently supposed to recognize. The small crowds of small people that passed him looked up from their indecipherable whispering and stared at him before walking away, gossiping even louder than before.

It was at this moment that Eiríkur realized that he was, in comparison to the inhabitants of this area, very tall. And from he could gather the people around him did not seem to like that at all. Eiríkur wondered if he was meant to be forever insignificant and forever small.

Perhaps he was only meant to be one of the millions of diamonds scattered on these busy streets.


	3. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, TIA/Megu here with another longer chapter! Thank you to kahlanaisling and gnortaku for help me fix things up, and hopefully you enjoy!
> 
> (You may wonder what has gotten into one of our characters as you read through this. Let's just say that I did a lot of research on it and it won't be revealed until later. So stick with me, if you so please! <3)
> 
> -TIA/Megu

Eiríkur had walked into an entirely new world. He knew New York was big, but he didn’t imagine that it would be large enough to hold some miniature, exotic foreign country inside it, too. But he was in there, without passport and proof of citizenship, and completely lost in translation.

To start with, Eiríkur’s English was not up to par yet. He barely managed small, awkward conversations with his roommates, most of which bottled down to the same few lines they puzzled out one afternoon from an old grammar book their tenant tossed at their already-broken front door.

“Good morning, how are you doing?” One of them would ask very slowly, attempting to cover up their accent. The Bulgarian had a tendency to say “Good morning” even when it wasn’t.

“I am doing very well, thank you very much.” The others would answer in unison. “How are you doing today?"

“Very good. Thank you very much. Goodbye.”

Then they would all continue with what they were doing, feeling slightly accomplished at one successful lesson completed out of forty-five. Occasionally, a couple of them, namely the Bulgarian and the Swede, would imitate the accompanying illustrations in the book as a form of bonding ritual. Outside of this practice, however, Eiríkur’s English was limited to scrutinizing books he found leftover on the shelves or the few “sophisticated” words he found in the “Dear America” letter. He studied that letter quite religiously.

But judging by the looks of the area, not to mention the homogeneity between those living in it, Eiríkur figured that his limited knowledge of English would not help him find that could first of all tell him where he was, and secondly direct him home. The fact that they spoke this singing language with hardly any discernible words to the young man’s ears didn’t help at all.

Eiríkur rankled at the thought of being lost in a country within a country that he was already lost in. If Nils was here, he would make that joke about how Eiríkur was always lost in something or another. If he wasn’t lost at sea looking for the horizon, he would be lost in his own house under pamphlets by those “deluded” Fjölnismenn and their cries for independence. Eiríkur would ignore him. Nils would tell him that he was lost in his own thoughts.

What a wonderful combination he had right now. Lost in both this big damn city and his big damn nostalgic thoughts.

“Hórusonur,” Eiríkur muttered to himself, realizing that he was out of the vicinity of disparaging adult figures (and Berwald) and could now curse. “Hórusonur” seemed quite fitting to what he was feeling right now, anyway. To be sure though, Eiríkur looked around to make sure no one was looking at him. Hopefully no one among the gods were, either.

After standing there for what seemed like a good forty-five minutes, Eiríkur decided to start walking around the place, partly because he was feeling paranoid for some reason and partly because he really had nothing better to do since he was lost enough as is. If he was lucky, maybe he could find another river of glass shards to take him back. Glass shards were what got him here. Hopefully they could get him out of here, too.

With that, Eiríkur walked past more signs with thick scribbles and varying levels of that sickly-sweet incense that this place seemed to be addicted to. The few signs that did use the English alphabet had odd words like “Wong” and “Ting” and other one-syllable “Ngs” that Eiríkur had hardly ever seen in his part of New York. Old, run down concrete buildings and brick buildings alike had the remnants of old commercial posters barely hanging on by their last corner while sloping, scalloped rooftops hung over barely-dressed men shaving vegetable peels on buckets.

Dark-haired men in dark pants and dark jackets walked past squinting at each other as if there were no one here to trust. Broken streetlamps leaned, ready for someone to catch them before they shattered into a million pieces on the ground and begged their maker to turn them into icons of progress for bringing light to this part of town. That word again. Progress. So much for progress.

Eiríkur scanned his surroundings, walking with his hands shoved into his pockets and his weary eyes looking for one calming sight to rest upon. He never found it. Instead he found the cold, unmoving stare of one young man, most likely his age, standing in the distance. Eiríkur lowered his head when he realized that the stranger would not stop staring at him, with his one dark eye and narrowed eyebrow glaring from his long bangs.

There wasn’t much Eiríkur could do about the other youth. Crowds had begun to form on both sidewalks, and Eiríkur would have preferred not to be run over by one of the many carts and rickshaws rolling through the main road. The least he could do now was to try and be as invisible as possible with his silvery-white hair and pale face—very useful features for hiding amongst dark-haired men with matching black hats.

Walking and walking and walking, Eiríkur returned to his weaving pattern in order to sift through this new crowd. He thought that if he moved fast enough, that young man—no, that boy would shift his gaze to something else and leave him alone.

Occasionally, Eiríkur would try peek over someone’s hat (of course remaining as inconspicuous as possible) to see if this boy had stopped. Yet every time he did so the fire in the other boy’s eyes would singe Eiríkur’s fingers and he would have to duck back into the crowd and continue on. Eiríkur was used to getting stares from those around him, but there was a burning he sensed in that boy that seared into his mind. A distrustful, silent flame that Eiríkur had unintentionally ignited.

The moment that he walked past that boy, Eiríkur finally figured out how.

Where the boy was standing the people would quickly step back down to the cobbled road and back onto the dusty sidewalks. Some would stop by men sitting outside to start up a loud, energetic conversations. Some would run into alleys, never to be seen again. Some would cross under the small iron bridge connecting both sides of the street.

Only when Eiríkur heard a piercing snap below his feet did he realize that he had nearly stepped on a string of red firecrackers.

“Hórusonur!”

Eiríkur jumped backwards before one of the round, papery crackers could burn or quite possibly destroy his foot. He took a quick, burning glance at the dark-haired boy who stood next to it. The dark-haired boy stared back, though there was a slight hint of a smirk on his face. Eiríkur huffed and hopped over the chain then stormed off towards the bridge.

As Eiríkur walked away he heard the clash of metal and shouting behind him then footsteps rushing in his direction. Was it him? Had he done something wrong? First time in an unfamiliar part of New York and he was already causing trouble. It was best that he got away as quickly as possible.

“You! Wait! Stop, sir, please!” A thick-accented, deep voice now accompanied the footsteps. Eiríkur considered breaking into a run to be safe, but it was too late. A warm, firm hand came down upon his shoulder.

Eiríkur stopped. And waited.

The voice was now wheezing. “I am so, so, sorry-ah! So sorry! Are you okay?”

The Icelandic boy turned his head only slightly to see who was speaking to him. He caught a glimpse of a man’s long, black ponytail and two narrowed, brown eyes looking at him.

Eiríkur nodded, a bit confused by the stranger's sudden concern.

The hand relaxed and its owner sighed in relief. “I am so sorry, Kha-Loung gets funny like that sometimes.” The man had clearly been practicing his English, but made no effort to neither hide his accent nor correct his errors.

Rummaging through his mind for an adequate response, Eiríkur finally responded with a stiff “I am fine.”

Finally, the man took his hand off Eiríkur’s shoulder, cuing Eiríkur to turn around and properly face him. The man massaged his temples and paced back and forth, shaking his head.

“No, no, that will not do at all, _Gen ben bu xing_ ,” he replied, slipping into that sing-song chat for a moment. “This happens every time.” He stopped pacing and looked at Eiríkur. “What are you needing, young man?”

Still in shock from the previous events, Eiríkur didn’t respond.

“That is okay, sir, we figure out inside!” The man gripped onto Eiríkur’s wrist and Eiríkur, once again having not much else to do, consented with another surprised nod and let the man lead the way.

As he entered a wooden doorway, Eiríkur caught the stare of that boy one more time. One brown eye glared at him with a fiery glow that followed Eiríkur inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hórusonur-"son of a bitch" in Icelandic


	4. The Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. Chapter 4 is finished. I had trouble finding the interior of what Mr. Wang's house would look like, so I did some guessing work from Google Images and my own experiences in Taiwan and the Chinatowns I've been to, so do forgive me! I will add footnotes on any references I've made.
> 
> Enjoy and thanks for reading,  
> TIA/Megu

The moment he stepped in, Eiríkur took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. There it was again, that sickly sweet smell that perfumed the entire area. Meanwhile, the older man hurried Eiríkur inside and onto a round, intricately woven seat that seemed out of place amongst the mess of objects lying around the small, cramped house. The owner of the house didn’t really seem to bother much with lighting, Eiríkur figured.

“Now, I need to go into the other shop for a bit then make tea. I will be very quickly back! You stay!” The man’s ponytail swished back and forth as he exited through an intricately decorated doorway with old scrolls hanging from both sides. Eiríkur squinted to get a closer look at the scrolls, which were tattered and (at least from what he could tell in the dark) starting to yellow with age. Through the doorway he noticed a shiny, wooden counter crammed with jars of mysterious wrinkled flowers and skin-like clumps of who knew what.

Eiríkur also noticed the quiet, sullen footsteps of another stranger, which was quite hard to ignore when Eiríkur looked behind him to see those dark, indecipherable eyes again. Perhaps they were glowing, too, or perhaps it was just Eiríkur imagining things again. Eiríkur looked down at one dusty woven carpet and shook his head to himself. He was clearly just imagining things as usual.

It was at this moment that a thin trail of smoke caught Eiríkur’s eye. He followed it, noticing that annoying scent, and traced it to a few slim sticks that were stuck into a small pile of ashes. The ashes sat comfortable inside an equally small porcelain dish, facing an array of slowly decomposing fruits and vegetables. Eiríkur could only assume that this was a ritual offering practiced by the proprietors of the house, for an old photograph featuring the man and that boy was clumsily framed above the strange cornucopia. Eiríkur frowned. Even from afar and in picture form the other boy’s eyes pierced at him like dancing needles, poking at every end of his conscience.

Just as he was going to get a closer look, however, Eiríkur heard the other boy rise and walk over the many lamps and crates and cloths scattered around the room to pick up a gilded chest. Eiríkur turned away from the boy a bit to try and count how many cracks on the wall he could find, yet he continued to keep the boy’s every move within the corner of his eye. He didn’t like this boy at all. He didn’t like how he barely had to notice him before he felt a burning against his cheeks, most likely reciprocating the apparent anger that the boy had towards Eiríkur. The boy was like a dark, cold sun, and Eiríkur had to remain far away from him if he wanted to stay safe.

The sun from outside burst into the doorway, looking for a home within the dark, dusty, and damp mess that Eiríkur was stranded in. It shone on the lion paws of a few short tables, and the rusty surface of a used stove. The light gave life to whatever surface was facing it and cast the remaining pieces furniture into the shadows, but didn’t seem to mind coaxing mirrors and teacups from their hiding places under the couch. Eiríkur’s silvery head of hair reflected the rays onto the chest placed behind him, a mirror that reflected everything around him but himself.

There was a click. Eiríkur jumped and turned around to find the other boy sitting on the carpet, facing towards the makeshift shrine on the left wall. The boy’s slender, pale hands reached out through his long red sleeves and plucked out a copper-colored bundle of wire. Eiríkur leaned a little closer towards his companion’s direction. The wire object appeared to be some sort of puzzle, as the boy was holding the wire up and inspecting it from every angle. What appeared to be a small, thin ring swung back and forth from the remainder of the structure, and the boy had looped a large, pin-like contraption around the copper bundle and poked at the ring with it. Eiríkur could imagine the boy’s brow furrowing and perpetual frown from trying to puzzle out the missing piece, whatever it was.

As Eiríkur leaned in closer, the boy’s fiddling became more frantic, although relaxed shoulders and a steady gaze (again, only from what Eiríkur could tell) would prove otherwise. And when Eiríkur finally caught a glimpse of the boy’s face—thick, furrowed eyebrows, frown and all—the boy seemed to sense Eiríkur’s presence. And stopped.

If Eiríkur squinted, he could make out the faint hint of a smile on the boy’s face, as if all the loose ends and every bend of the wire puzzle suddenly came together in one golden, eye-opening revelation. A quick, smug glance toward Eiríkur caused the Icelander to sharply turn away right when the older man burst in with a tray of steaming hot drinks that was set onto a table with a “clink.”

“I am so sorry to keep you waiting so long here!” The man apologized, a little flustered. “I was so busy, I almost forgot that you were waiting the whole time!” The man brushed his bangs aside and mopped his brow with an old handkerchief. Eiríkur watched him with curiosity, oddly satisfied with the prospect of putting that strange boy out of his mind.

The man quickly led Eiríkur off his seat and near the table while Eiríkur peered into the small teacups. There sat a fragrant copper liquid that the man was most likely expecting him to drink. Eiríkur blanched a little. For someone who always wanted to experience the world, Eiríkur was still incredibly particular about his food and drinks.

The dark-haired man looked at Eiríkur with a raised eyebrow. “It is good for your health, don't have any fear. Try it.”

Not wanting to disrespect his host, Eiríkur reached out for a cup. Right when his palms were curled around the cup, Eiríkur recoiled. The cup was too hot to hold.  
“I think I will wait, thank you, sir…?” Eiríkur waited for the man to properly introduce himself.

“Oh! I am sorry, so sorry, everything is going so busy today!” The man smacked his forehead. “My name is Wang Y-no, no sorry, Yao Wang,” the man corrected himself very quickly and reached out his hand to shake. “I’m from China, so my English is not good. Pardon me, sir!”

Eiríkur smiled in an attempt to console the very apologetic Mr. Wang. “It is nice to meet you. My name is Eiríkur Ólafsson. I am from Iceland, so my English is not very good either.” He timidly shook Mr. Wang’s hand, which warmly and tersely shook back.

“It is very nice to meet you, ahh… Mr. Ólafsson?” Mr. Wang stumbled over the name. “And you are from… Iceland? Iceland, Iceland… oh! Bing Dao, that’s it! I remember that from this map I saw!”

Eiríkur nodded. “Yes, Iceland. Though not a lot people from Iceland come to New York.”

“That is very strange, I think,” replied Mr. Wang. “I thought many people came into New York. That is how I found here this Chinatown.”

At last, a name to call this place. Chinatown. Which would explain the weird sweet scent and the singing language that Eiríkur kept hearing.

“Lots of people from the same country live and work here all the time,” Mr. Wang repeated himself. “Some people are much better than others, but most Chinese here are very good, very good.” The previous frustration on Mr. Wang’s face was wiped away by an exuberant, almost overbearing grin. “But that also means that I get so many customers, and it is very busy and hard to take care of my lazy brother.” Mr. Wang glared at the boy. The boy looked up and scowled.

“I see,” Eiríkur replied apathetically. He did not like that Mr. Wang had brought up that boy again, not to mention that that boy was also Mr. Wang’s brother.

Mr. Wang sensed Eiríkur’s discomfort. “I see. I almost forgot now. My brother, Kha-Loung. He doesn’t trust people very easily. Ever since he first got here.” Upon this, Kha-Loung looked up impassively before pulling out a few jagged blocks and playing around with them. Mr. Wang looked back at his brother and sighed. “It is a very long story that takes up too much time, I think. And I need to go back to working.” The Chinese man walked to the doorway and peered out, muttering what Eiríkur thought to be incantations. Was Mr. Wang a magician? Was he trying to curse people?

But before Eiríkur could ask, Mr. Wang whipped back around and strolled towards where Kha-Loung was, pulling the boy off the floor with one strong arm.

“Well, Kha-Loung needs to grow up, so I can’t apologize for him.” The reluctant Kha-Loung responded with an angry glare into Mr. Wang’s eyes. Mr. Wang clicked his tongue at him. “So I am making Kha-Loung walk you home as an apology. “ Kha-Loung was quiet, and so was Eiríkur. They agreed on at least something.

But of course, common courtesy once again overrode Eiríkur’s emotions. “Very well then. I accept your apology,” Eiríkur heard himself saying. The boy’s dark, piercing glare was redirected at Eiríkur. Eiríkur looked away slightly, for he was also a bit angry at himself for what had just come out of his own mouth.

Mr. Wang beamed, not caring about how the two boys felt about the whole arrangement. “Yes, perfect, perfect! Kha-Loung, my friends will tell me if you send Ai-, Ai-lison, ah—Eiríkur to a bad place. So you listen to Dai Gou Gou, okay?”

Kha-Loung met Mr. Wang’s demands with silence, gesturing at “Dai Gou Gou” to let go of him. “Dai Gou Gou” let go and slapped Kha-Loung on the back with a chuckle.

“There we go now! Have a nice day! Stay safe and don’t cause trouble!”

And with that, Eiríkur and Kha-Loung were herded out of the doorway and back into the streets where the whole commotion again. They both stood there for a moment, trying not to acknowledge each other before the chipper, older man pushed them out further into the streets and accidentally bumped together. Mr. Wang waved them off and quickly ducked back into his store before the two boys could turn around and glare at him.

They stood there, two statues calmly observing the rise and fall of activity around them. A real statue of an old, long-haired man looked down upon them. Eiríkur stood there. Kha-Loung nodded at the statue.

Then they kept standing there.

And standing.

And standing. Eiríkur hoped at this point he could turn to stone.

Finally, after a few more moments of awkward silence, Kha-Loung asked, “So… where do you even live?”

Eiríkur shoved his hands into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper that he then shoved into the other boy’s face. He decided that he was too busy watching a few braided boys hop around bamboo sticks that they beat against the ground.

Kha-Loung smirked. “I am sorry, I don’t read.” Eiríkur crumpled the paper back into his pants pocket and grumbled, “Manhattan.”

“Where in Manhattan?” provoked Kha-Loung. Eiríkur sighed, a little irritated at Kha-Loung's pestering.

“Outside of Little Italy. Near the big river.”

“I see.” A small, devilish smile appeared on Kha-Loung’s face. “I’ve been around there about a couple of times. I know exactly where that is.”

Kha-Loung gripped onto Eiríkur’s wrist, taking extra care to remove all circulation from Eiríkur’s hand. Sulking, Eiríkur slouched and followed Kha-Loung back into the wave, who swung Eiríkur back and forth with no regard to his welfare whatsoever. Not that Eiríkur expected any less of him in the first place, for if he was in the same position he would have done the same. But Eiríkur would do without the physical contact and mockery, even if Kha-Loung didn’t get the hint. Or even bothered noticing.

As they strolled past men in black braids and young children in loose pants and silken shoes, Eiríkur looked back at the lonely string of firecrackers that was now abandoned at the door of Mr. Wang’s residence. It looked dead enough to Eiríkur, but somehow Eiríkur felt as if a fuse had already been lit. Now all that remained was to wait for the fireworks.


	5. Into the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, TIA/Megu here! Sorry it took me so long to update with the next chapter! (And even with the long while it took me to even get it posted, I may or may not go back and rewrite it a bit OTL)
> 
> So before I continue, a couple of things:
> 
> 1\. Starting from this chapter and most likely to the end, occasionally music/lyrics/poetry will be incorporated into the fic. Because I am paranoid in regards to copyright and a proud lyricist, any lyrics you see in this fic will be guaranteed to be written by me. I won't be releasing the first song until Chapter 7, but I will keep you updated with my musical progress as well if you are interested :)
> 
> 2\. There's some things that may need clarifying that I'll put at the bottom of the fic. I have a tendency to stuff in a lot of things and references intentionally but discreetly ; If I don't explain something, it's likely that it will either be explained in the future or it is a huge err on my part. So R&R would be greatly appreciated! So please keep reading!
> 
> Bless bless and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> -TIA/Megu aka Megumitan

Three blocks later, there were still no fireworks. This was a good thing, because Eiríkur's previous interaction with such flammable objects had left him wary of the things, and Eiríkur would have preferred not to have actually stepped on a firework the next time around. It was due to that incident that Eiríkur soon found it useful to learn how to distinguish the various red items that surrounded the doorways and interior of every building he and Kha-Loung passed. Currently, Eiríkur had cataloged the decorations he had seen between the frivolous, undecipherable, flammable, and lethal.

Three blocks later, the two boys were now a little closer to the edge of what Eiríkur recently learned was 'Chinatown.' From a distance Eiríkur could see that the scalloped rooftops had been replaced by the familiar brick buildings and English store signs that were commonplace in the scenery of Eiríkur's own tenement. He hoped that these particular buildings weren't affected by the smell of incense that now perfumed his clothes.

Three blocks later, Eiríkur Ólafsson decided that he still did not like his new companion.

He disliked everything between the stray strands of hair on the top of Kha-Loung's forehead down to the scuff marks on his black soles. He could go days without seeing that thin-lipped smirk on Kha-Loung's face when Eiríkur nearly stepped on those stray firecrackers a few moments ago, and years without that burning stare. In fact, Eiríkur could go a lifetime without that all-knowing, impossibly god-like look in Kha-Loung's eyes that followed Eiríkur and his conscience wherever they went. It simply unsettled him.

And even when Kha-Loung had suddenly taken on a new identity, it didn't change the fact that he was still there and that despite it all, Eiríkur needed Kha-Loung to get back home.

"I should mention that you should call me Siu-Chun," the dark-haired boy had declared as they passed a couple of rickety push carts.

Eiríkur jumped a bit at such an odd conversation starter, his pace quickening as if he subconsciously wanted to escape such a potentially uncomfortable situation. This was certainly not 'fireworks.' In fact, this was no way to begin any sort of good relation. And it was true that perhaps Eiríkur was dwelling on such a random statement for longer than he should have, but there was something about that boy that rubbed him the wrong way, and he would not give in until he finally figured out what it was.

But then again, who was this  _boy_  to have the nerve to tell Eiríkur what to do?

Yet perhaps Eiríkur was expected to respond with a nod or a "Very well then." But as the silence persisted for a bit longer, Eiríkur realized that he had forfeited his chance at attempting to make normal conversation with such a peculiar figure, deciding instead to simply stay close to Kha-Loung, mentally refer to Kha-Loung by the first name he heard for him, and pass the time with something else.

It was times like these, seemingly insignificant but clearly uncomfortable times, that Eiríkur found it necessary to travel back in time.

He often did so with the small collection of pamphlets and journals that carried him like wings overseas six months ago from Reykjavik to New York City. Pages upon pages of wisdom and romanticism carried Eiríkur away from home and one step closer to Nils, one step closer to the end of his pathway and away from the thought of being "Danish."

That's what the immigrations officers said he was. Danish and Danish through and through. And while Eiríkur had no problem with most other Danish peoples personally (that is, when it wasn't a holiday, weekend, or any other sort of excuse for Danes to drink heavily), it was thanks to these pamphlets and his peculiar family situation that made it impossible for Eiríkur to call himself "Danish."

Oddly enough, however, most of the Icelandic pamphlets he had with him were printed in Copenhagen. The Fjolnir was no exception, but that never stopped Eiríkur from nicking copies from his father's bedside table for some useful reading material.

Eiríkur reached into a pocket inside his vest and pulled out one of the pamphlets, seeing the familiar black text printed in rows of various sizes down the cover. It was better to start now than later.

But before he began traveling back into time, Eiríkur quickly glanced up at Kha-Loung, who had positioned himself a few inches too close to Eiríkur and was now whistling in a pentatonic scale. Eiríkur hastily decided that Kha-Loung wouldn't mind the brief interruption. He was strange, after all. 

And with that, Eiríkur Ólafsson opened the pamphlet and found himself back on that old chipped wooden table at home. His real home. Iceland.

He was pronouncing every Icelandic letter to himself, spilling spoonfuls of hræringur as he struggled to take on the daunting task of eating and reading simultaneously at a mere four and a half years. That smell of worn paper seemed to mix in with the sweet smell of freshly picked berries topped on his porridge, and Eiríkur could taste it as his father hunched over him and explained the meaning of each word that he finished dictating.

It could have been said that Eiríkur was more fortunate than most other Icelandic families. He had been blessed with a family, as unusual as they were in organization, which could make a living off more than farmlands and fish. There was his father, who had been raised comfortably in Copenhagen during the last days of the great Jón Sigurðsson to read, write, and think like an Icelander living in Denmark after leaving his home in Reykjavik. Young Eiríkur liked the poems that his father showed him and wrote him. He especially liked the ones about his mother- or at least, the mother that he had never met.

Eiríkur knew very little about his actual mother outside of faded photographs and the elegies that his father would sometimes compose late at night when Eiríkur was supposed to be asleep. When Ólaf Símonarsson set down the pen and trudged into his bed, Ólaf would quietly climb onto the chair and peer over the desk to look at the curlicues and bars that became music to Eiríkur's ears when he sounded them out quietly with his lips.

Eiríkur's father had always described good poetry as something that was felt strongly. Something that was 'sublime.' If that was the case, then, Eiríkur's mother must have been someone very "sublime" as well. After all, all the poems Eiríkur had heard about her made him feel very strongly for her.

Nonetheless, rhyme and meter didn't change the fact that Eiríkur hardly knew his actual mother. It didn't help that he had often designated that title to Nils' mother, who had came into his life a couple months before his sixth birthday.

Pale blonde and pale skinned, when Silje Landevik first entered the house she had standing next to her a slightly older boy. That boy was Nils, and he didn't feel the need to resort to clinging to his mother's leg to show that he wasn't too willing to meet new people. Eiríkur, meanwhile, preferred the traditional method of hiding behind his father and peering out nervously at the newcomer.

Nils' eyes were unmistakably a deep, full blue. Eiríkur would later find it difficult to understand why people who saw them insisted that the brothers were both violet-eyed and as a result two very peculiar cases of human beings. And somehow, almost-six Eiríkur equated such an observation to being Norwegian.

At the very least it was better than being Danish. Eiríkur had been taught that, as an Icelander through and through, being Danish was a title that Eiríkur should never touch or keep for himself.

And so, at almost-six Eiríkur didn't seem to mind being Norwegian too much. Nils was the first brother that he had ever had, and for a Norwegian he seemed nice enough. Now, Eiríkur couldn't ignore the fact that reading Nils was difficult- he had a cold, burning stare that built walls between him and anyone he met. But the moment Eiríkur broke through those very walls he realized that hidden in those round rings of burning blue was a language all its own. And when Eiríkur learned to read that language, he found a new form of poetry. A type of poetry that didn't need words and lines and little accents to be "sublime."

It was a very odd way to describe one's half-sibling, but Eiríkur always thought Nils to be a never-ending poem. The best kind of poems that had that same emotional power to them without the headaches and porridge spilling from trying to read all of the words. Though Eiríkur never really understood why, his father liked to describe these sorts of things as "romantic." But Eiríkur never really saw Nils as a romantic. In fact, Nils never mentioned anything about being "romantic," and Eiríkur, too young to know or care, didn't want to ask. So Eiríkur simply assumed his half-brother wasn't.

A few years later, Eiríkur wished that he had asked sooner.

He found himself at fourteen years, done with his schooling and ready to take a break with his father's old reading material in his room. Eiríkur was walking down the hall to his room at the end, trying not to let the floorboards creak and interrupt the sound of an old fiddle playing from Nils' room.

Nils played the fiddle very well, and he made it very clear that he knew. Nearly every evening at 45 after midnight Eiríkur also became aware of this fact when he had to cover his head with his pillow every time Nils deliberately played his dance pieces right next to his door. This time around, Nils had thankfully kept his fiddle-playing in his room, so Eiríkur found the music to be more enjoyable than cacophonous and was soon stepping to the rhythm of Nils' current solo.

_Three steps forward, and three steps back. On your way deeper into the path—_

Eiríkur remembered when Nils first got his fiddle. Though he didn't smile, there was a certain light in his eyes that proved well enough that he enjoyed his present thoroughly. Eiríkur was warming his hands against a cup of mulled wine while Nils gently picked up the fiddle with both hands, inspecting every groove and carving before plucking at one of his strings. Ólaf and Silje looked at their son with equally confused expressions when Nils suddenly stood up and walked straight into his room with his instrument, bow, and resin and closed the door.

Minutes later, a couple screeches blasted from the room, followed by some silent Norweigian cursing that Nils had probably hoped that his mother wouldn't hear.

Silence.

Mother, father, and half-brother waited for a sign of life.

They were slightly pleased when they heard a few smaller, tinier screeches. Then astounded by a resonant, deep vibrato as boy and fiddle finally reconciled. The family sat outside quietly, letting the sound echo and fade away. An auditory apparition had been stamped into every member of the household.

_Into the forest and never back—_

When Eiríkur looked up, the door to his room appeared to be even further away than it was before. Eiríkur quickened his pace, knowing that his house was too small for his room to be so far away. He looked back behind him, and saw that Nils' room was well off in the distance, its mysteries and secrets locked away from the Icelandic boy once more.

Yet the music grew louder. It grew louder and brighter, passionate and pleading, almost romantic. Eiríkur couldn't help but wonder if all these years, Nils had been a romantic after all. Did his parents mean it when they joked that Nils had fallen in love with his fiddle? Or was he playing for someone real, someone he was waiting for? Who was it that he played for, and how did they convince Nils to persist, pick up the instrument, and keep playing?

Questions overrode Eiríkur's mind until there were no room for answers, and when he turned to run back to his room all that there was left was a long, endless hallway. At the end was darkness, and somewhere in there was Eiríkur's room. And somewhere else in Eiríkur's room was safety.

_Over the seas and under the pleas of, "Darling won't you come on home?"_

Eiríkur's feet beat against the ground, certain that there was something at the end of the hallway that hadn't been discovered yet. The sound of chimes seemed to accompany the strings in the background, but moments later their melodies clashed, and Eiríkur found himself running away from the sound of breaking glass. Soon, he became aware once more that he had been traveling time.

Eiríkur had also been reminded of the ramifications of time-traveling in that he had no control of where his ultimate destination would be. Little sounds or sights could trigger a sudden 'jump' into more unfavorable times, and Eiríkur would have no other choice but to be pulled back home when it didn't feel like home or towards somewhere that would make him want to run home.

_Leave four flowers on my tomb—_

Eiríkur had finally stopped. A cold chill now crawled up and down his back as the background dissipated from sight. He looked down at the floor. Birchwood. Just like home. He soon remembered the small dark stains that started appearing on the floors a few years before he left for New York. Though seemingly insignificant, the stains had caused Silje much distress and correlated with Nils' increasing disappearances as the boys both grew older. Eiríkur kneeled down and slid his hands across the ground, letting the sharp, medicine-like smell of birch trees calm him down.

And that was when a hand pulled Eiríkur back into the streets of New York City.

He felt a small shock run up his spine and rubbed at his eyes with his shoulder. Eiríkur then clumsily stuffed the pamphlet back into one of his pockets with his free arm and looked at the other to find none other than Kha-Loung's tight grip around Eiríkur's wrist. Eiríkur opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. So instead, Eiríkur sulked and gave up his left arm to Kha-Loung, his face burning in a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

At wherever they were a few moments ago (the homogeneity of the tenements and buildings made it hard for Eiríkur to figure out exactly where), Eiríkur didn't like Kha-Loung very much. Now, he liked the Asian boy even less. Trying not to trip over any curbs or cracks, Eiríkur rushed to catch up with Kha-Loung in hopes that he could appease this boy and be rid of him sooner, but more so to ensure that his arm wasn't torn off.

Under rolling clouds and blue-grey skies, they ran together between carts and over the dragging leashes of the aristocrats' Pomeranians.

As they leaped over a couple of loose wooden boards that appeared to have fallen from the door they barred, the faint sound of an old violin reached the boys' ears in a gradual crescendo.

_Under the fields, I'm all alone._

Soon they had snaked their way into a growing crowd around one of the street corners. Faded posters tried to hide the brick underneath the adjacent building, but as a soft breeze tore at the tears, the eye of "Marcario The Magnificent" and the legs of a several showgirls fell from the walls and floated down onto the streets.

Bumping knees and shoulders with every bystander he passed, Eiríkur was finally pulled to the front of the crowd, and Kha-Loung finally let go of his victim's arm.

Panting and massaging his wrist, at last Eiríkur sputtered, "Kha-L-I mean, Siu-chun!"

"Yes?" Came the blunt reply.

Eiríkur collected his thoughts, then spit them back out in an arbitrary order.

"Your brother agreed that you would take me home."

"We are going home." Kha-Loung smirked. "Or at least I am."

After scanning around him to find the two of them completely surrounded by people, Eiríkur ranted on. "We are trapped in this crowd. And this is not my house. You are completely responsible."

"I am." Kha-Loung, unlike Eiríkur, was clearly amused whether his face was showing it or not.

"I need to get home," Eiríkur growled.

"You will," Kha-Loung responded distractedly.

"You're not paying attention to me! I need to get back home!"

Kha-Loung didn't reply and turned his attention towards the center of the crowd, making it clear that if Eiríkur were to keep going, he would only be embarrassing himself. Eiríkur gave up, crossed his arms, and pouted, not caring at the moment how immature he looked.

After a few moments of sulking, Eiríkur finally turned to see a young, smiling man with a small bowler hat that never seemed to fall off despite the number of times he kept bowing. In the man's hands were a bow and violin.

Eiríkur sighed in slight relief. Musical performances didn't last that long. He could humor Kha-Loung for the moment.

_Three steps forward and three steps back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Icelanders have a different naming system that doesn't rely on one family name. This is why Eiríkur and his dad have two different surnames. This is explained by the Icelandic government here: http://eng.innanrikisraduneyti.is/information/nr/125


	6. Eyes of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, TIA/Megu here!
> 
> I am so, so, so sorry it took me so long to update. Not to mention I still have to go back and tweak around a few things for some of the older chapters for a better reading experience.
> 
> You may notice that the song is back again, but this time you get -all- the lyrics instead of part of them. I'm going to be taking classes in summer, too, so no guarantees that I'll upload within the next couple weeks OTL.
> 
> Again, sorry for the wait, and hope you enjoy!
> 
> -TIA/Megu

"Don't leave t'window op'n f'too long."

Eiríkur nodded slowly as he rested his head on his arms, staring out into another noisy New York evening. A cup of hot water was set on the windowsill next to the boy. Then, a tall shadow passed over him, signaling that the Swede had decided to retire for the night.

_Three steps forward and three steps back,_

_On your way deeper into the path._

After glancing back behind him to ensure that everyone was asleep, Eiríkur returned his attention back outside, blinking a couple times to get used to the bright street lights now illuminating the sidewalks below.

It was always interesting to watch the choreography of the other residents living on the street. The windows in the tenements on the other side seemed to open and close, flicker on and off, and clash to a certain rhythm, perfectly aligned in a grid upon the worn brick facade. Some of them were slammed shut, heavy eyelids drooping off to sleep. Others were awakened by noisy neighbors and flitted open with the barely audible click of a lamp.

_Into the forest and never back._

Come to think of it, it was the same windows that were always bright this late in the evening, a routine so consistent that Eiríkur could always tell if something was off the moment he faced the opposite building.

There was the old man who would stay up scribbling at his writing desk with only a candlelight on the fifth floor. There was the the smell of fresh bread floating out the the window of a nice young woman who was never to be seen in the area until late at night, when she could be heard humming to the sound of her fiance's guitar while doing both of their laundry.

And then there were Ms. Erzsébet Héderváry and Mr. Ștefan Rădulescu.

While Eiríkur had never really talked to either of the pair up until earlier today, he had been well-aware of their full names and every obscene and grotesque variation of them.

Most of this was due to the fact that Eiríkur was often kept up by their incessant banter at the most inopportune of times. It was the same arguments, insults, and topics that the two would always shout over, with Mr. Rădulescu mocking the angered Ms. Héderváry with his violin while the woman glared daggers in return from her window.

"You know, you should really lower your voice, darling, I don't think the neighbors appreciate you screeching over the beautiful sound of my violin."

"The last I checked, Mr. Rat-screw, it was only my concern of covering up that malformed parrot you carry on your shoulder."

"Are we talking of malformed pets? Because I could make that ratdog of yours screech if I grabbed it by its neck."

"Well, isn't it the case that people like you happen to like necks a little too much, don't you think?"

Eiríkur sighed as he sipped on his water. Indeed they were at it again, just like every other night he had been living here. He thought that by getting to know them better, perhaps their arguing wouldn't have been as irritating.

Eiríkur was wrong. But at least it was now somewhat amusing, especially now that he had a background to work with.

_Over the seas and under the pleas of,_

" _Darling won't you come on home?"_

Moments ago he had been dragged (unwillingly) into a street concert by the ever smug and mysterious Kha-Loung.

It was only a few hours later when the last of that street performance had faded into the sunset and echoed into the crisp, cool air, followed by a roaring applause from the crowd now enclosing the strawberry blond into his small makeshift stage.

Then, the slam of a window and the sound of a woman cursing set the violinist free.

While the rest of the crowd quickly backed away or returned to their daily routine, the young, long-haired Ms. Héderváry slammed the door of her building open and stormed down the steps until she was glaring directly at the smug grin of the performer. Eiríkur could feel an uneasiness grow in the pit of his stomach. There was something familiar about the woman and man that at the time seemed odd.

"Oh, so you think you're really funny, don't you?" Ms. Héderváry growled.

"If my audience seems to think so, then clearly I must be entertaining," Mr. Rădulescu replied calmly. "They seem to be more amused by strings and magical things than your constant bitching."

"Well, Ștefan," retorted the woman, "Perhaps they're amused by how obnoxious you sound on that screeching torture instrument."

"Ah, it's torturing you? Then it's doing its job!"

"Good for it, I hate you and your violins," Héderváry snapped back.

_Leave four flowers on my tomb._

"I don't mind violins. They're quite nice," Eiríkur heard himself interject. Kha-Loung looked at Eiríkur, bewildered, before walking over closer to him to see if either half of the bickering "couple" would respond.

The honey-haired women wheeled around and strolled over to Eiríkur, then sighed and gave him a pat on the head.

"I like violins too, dear. Just not when that excuse of a man plays it obnoxiously under my window."

"Oh, I get it, so you're the type to make excu-"

"Shut up!" The woman yelled at the man one last time, then returned to the startled boy in front of her.

The evening breeze blew a few stray hairs across Ms. Héderváry's face as she squinted and leaned in closer to examine Eiríkur.

"I think I've seen you around here," concluded Ms. Héderváry, and Eiríkur sensed that uneasy feeling once more. The woman then turned on her heel and headed back into the building, but not before kicking over Mr. Rădulescu's music stand. Sheets of music flew out onto the pavement, and Mr. Rădulescu scrambled to the ground to recollect every single one.

Or at least, as much as he could.

_Under the fields, I'm all alone._

With a nudge to Kha-Loung's arm, Eiríkur walked under the light of a gaslamp and picked up a couple of tattered sheets. The other boy followed him and peered over his shoulder, shoving his hands into his pockets as he got on his toes.

"What's that?" asked Kha-Loung, poking around at the papers.

"That would be sheet music, Kh-I'm sorry, Siu-Chun," Eiríkur replied curtly and whisked said papers away from other boy.

"I don't play music, I wouldn't know," retorted Kha-Loung, "But since you probably do, I think you could you tell me what it says."

Eiríkur rolled his eyes. "I can recognize sheet music when I see it, but not because I actually play an instrument."

"Then I don't think I can really believe you." Kha-Loung grabbed for the papers that Eiríkur was holding when a pale, slender hand took hold of them.

"Perhaps you might believe me, then, if my performance wasn't already convincing enough," said the owner of the hand, who then lazily stuffed the sheets into an old leather bag and zipped it closed.

Eiríkur and Kha-Loung turned and stared.

"It was an excellent show," began Kha-Loung.

"Thank you, good sir. Mr. Ștefan Rădulescu at your service!" The man lifted his small top hat from his head and bowed with flourish, looking up and grinning with a sharp, broken tooth. "I must apologize for that uncouth woman that interrupted my my wonderful performance. Usually she's more tolerable."

"It's fine," said Kha-Loung with a shrug, while Eiríkur mumbled, "Though you don't have to play under her window all the time."

Ștefan sniffed and tugged at his lapel. "Clearly, you don't understand."

"Clearly, he doesn't," added Kha-Loung. Eiríkur scowled at him. By now, the eyes of the night flickered open onto the street, rickety, newfangled automobiles roaring past the lighted windows of the tenement buildings and the dark windows of family shops.

"But neither do I," continued Kha-Loung, "So it would be nice if you could explain."

"Very well, sir," Ștefan replied as he sat on a doorstep. "So I am from Romania, yes?"

Eiríkur and Kha-Loung nodded, though they weren't sure why.

The man grinned, a dark shadow cast under his lids. "Wrong. I grew up in Austria-Hungary, but in my heart-" he tapped his chest, "I am Romanian, and where I lived the people ruling us treated us badly. But then, when I became an adult, they said that one day soon I would have to fight for them. So they broke my teeth, and I broke my promise and came here.

"Then I come here to America, and no one knows who I am, but they know what I do. I play violin." He strummed down his violin a couple times to emphasize this point. "And I play here. Always have since I first grew out normal teeth. And everything is fine and happy until that Hungarian lady, if you can call her one, moves in. And she yells at me and screams at me and doesn't let me play. She tells me one day, 'You lazy Romanian dog, why don't you go home and fight for us like you're supposed to?'

"The good thing was that she knew I was Romanian. The bad thing was that she told me that I was lazy and weak, and that is only true when I want it to be. So to prove to her that I can fight, I have been playing below her window ever since, and so far I think that I have successfully proven her wrong."

Then, Ștefan stood up and bowed again. "Thank you very much for your time, I hope you enjoyed my little story."

Eiríkur smirked in amusement, while Kha-Loung slowly clapped.

"And since you have all been a wonderful audience," continued Ștefan, "I'd like to show what is next in store." He walked over to one side of the staircase and pulled out an intricately decorated wooden violin case and snapped it open.

"This," announced Ștefan, "Is my new violin. I haven't used it for performances yet because I need to practice with it. Even for me, it is very strange. Look at it." He beckoned the pair over with one ringed finger and promptly shoved the instrument in their faces.

"We're looking," Eiríkur sniped.

"Good. Now, a normal violin has four strings." He plucked at the thickest one, which happened to be right in front of Eiríkur's nose. "This one is different though, it has eight strings. But it's also very pretty."

Ștefan certainly wasn't lying. In the growing darkness, Eiríkur could barely make out the eight-stringed fiddle's intricate motifs and black curlicues that bordered the body and tucked themselves delicately beneath the bridge, while etchings of Lily of the Valleys curled around the fiddle's sound holes. The Icelander wondered how Ștefan had gotten hold of such an ornate object. The Romanian's coat was torn into jagged black rags and even his top hat had a hole or two on the brim, not to mention that his shoes were covered in scuff marks and scratches. If he were to eat and live like any other human being, he certainly couldn't have afforded such an exquisite violin.

But Ștefan didn't seem to mind. Instead, he took the instrument back and looked at it admiringly before replacing it into its case and locking it.

"Wasn't I right? It is a beautiful instrument," Ștefan said before letting out a loud yawn. "And it is the exciting next chapter of my performance."

The Romanian rubbed at his eyes and yawned again. He accidently smeared a few streaks of kohl across his cheeks.

_When three became two, and I lost you…_

"But now, I think I will rest for my next exciting concert." Ștefan opened up the case again and the clinking of coins could be heard as he counted them, tapping his finger on a broken tooth while calculating his profits for the night. Frowning, Ștefan looked back up at the two boys staring down out him.

"Didn't I say I need to rest? Go, go, we will meet again one day!" Ștefan waved off Eiríkur and Kha-Loung before humming one of his pieces to himself and counting out his coins in the dark. The Romanian's dark coat and outfit allowed him to blend into the night, and when the two boys looked away for a moment and back, they could hardly see Mr. Ștefan Rădulescu at all.

"Well, I guess now is the time to actually find my house," said Eiríkur, "Though it would have been much easier to find in daylight."

Kha-Loung shrugged. "I thought you might like to see it. It's not very often that he comes out and performs. Usually he just argues with that one woman all the time. "

"I see." Eiríkur bit down on his lip and thought for a moment. There was something about Ștefan Rădulescu that seemed almost familiar. "I definitely think that I've seen him before. Or heard of him."

_Then the air turned cold…_

Eiríkur looked around before he finally spotted the familiar brick tenement, window lighting patterns and all, right across the street.

...The whole time his tenement was right across the street.

Right. across.

He turned to face Kha-Loung. "It. Was there. The whole. Damn. Time."

Kha-Loung nodded, his expression static.

Flustered, Eiríkur pointed at the building with each word. "The entire. Time."

The dark-haired boy responded with another nod, which was returned with a red-faced glare.

"I could have been home, I don't know, three hours ago. In the day time."

Laughter.

"In the day. Time. When it is safe."

"This isn't funny," sputtered Eiríkur, "I could have gotten in trouble if I didn't get back on time, and instead you- you-"

"I just found it amusing that you've lived here so long and didn't recognize them," mused Kha-Loung.

"There is that, but that's not the point. You completely wasted my time, when I-I-" Eiríkur stammered.

"I thought I heard you say you liked violins," Kha-Loung pointed out as they waited for the main road to clear.

"I do, it's just that-" Eiríkur stopped. "It's just that-" Eiríkur stopped again and looked down, trying to make out the laces on his shoes. The pair had conveniently situated themselves in between the two streetlamps and away from the light, and Eiríkur was running out of things to stare at while coming up with a better explanation.

"It's just that I'm here for a reason."

"Everyone's here for a reason. New York is called the Capital of the World, after all," responded Kha-Loung. The road cleared at last, and the boys herded themselves to the other side as quickly as possible.

"Well, it's a very personal reason," said Eiríkur as he dusted himself off at his tenement's door. "It's about someone that I care about. A lot."

_And all I could hold was Fate in my hands to lead me somewhere new…_

"A woman?" Kha-Loung mused.

"No. A family member," huffed Eiríkur, trying to peek into some of the windows. He hoped that his superintendent would be too distracted to see him enter so late.

"Ah. Did the person like violins?" asked Kha-Loung, climbing up a couple steps before sitting down.

"W-wh-what?" Eiríkur turned from the window to see Kha-Loung staring blankly at the opposite building. "What kind of question is that?"

The other boy picked up a pebble and threw it into the gas-lighted road. It bounced a few times before hitting the shoe of a young man walking by.

"Just answer it."

"I still don't see-" Eiríkur took a deep breath to control his temper. It was quite trying to deal with Kha-Loung's insolence, though Eiríkur was willing to put up a fight with him. But just this once, he would give in. At least, Eiríkur was pretty sure that this was the first time.

_Fate in my hands…_

"Fine. Yes, the person did. Very much, in fact. He used to play his fiddle all the time."

"I see." Kha-Loung rose and stretched his arms, shaking his head a little to fix up his hair. "Well, then, my question has been answered and Tai-ko is going to yell at me if I'm not back soon. I think I'll go now." Kha-Loung bid Eiríkur goodbye with a small wave and walked off under the streetlamps. He didn't even wait for Eiríkur to thank him.

_Yet it turned me away from you._

Eiríkur groaned and stomped up the stairs, through the door, and back up into his room. He sighed in relief when it was Berwald and not the Italian who opened the door for him, already dressed in his robe and slippers.

"Y'smell l'ke n'cense," was the first thing Berwald said as Eiríkur threw his vest onto a nearby chair.

"Don't ask. It's been a long day," grumbled Eiríkur. The Icelander closed the door behind him and blinked a couple of times to get used to the dim lighting. "Are the others asleep?"

Berwald nodded and guided Eiríkur further into the room without a word, then returned to their makeshift kitchen to tend to a rickety kettle. Eiríkur looked behind him at the two beds. Sure enough, the Bulgarian was snoring into his pillow on top of the covers, but the Italian was nowhere to be found. By now, the three other roommates knew better than to question where Lovino went during the evenings.

So Eiríkur pulled the blinds aside and opened the room's only window, letting the fresh breeze cool him down. He pulled a small chair up to it and sat down, looking outside to observe yet another busy evening.

Suddenly he heard a faint yelling from the other side the road. Eiríkur turned his attention to it, and sure enough, there was Ștefan and Ms. Héderváry shouting at each other, just like they had every other night he had been here. At least this time he knew their names. The Icelander sighed and listened in on their banter, which could cover up the kettle whistling in the kitchen.

Soon, the room was quiet.

Later, Eiríkur heard the slow footsteps of Berwald come near.

"Don't leave t'window op'n f'too long."

Eiríkur nodded slowly as he rested his head on his arms, staring out into another noisy New York evening.


	7. Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry it took me a while to update;I had a really bad slump, but I'm back! ... Well, for now, at least. If you're still here, thank you so much for staying with me, I really appreciate it, and I hope you enjoy the next installment (Be warned that it may take a bit before I hit a stride)!. Hong Kong won't be here as much this time because it's high time that I get some more plot going on here, but he's going to play a huge role starting... VERY soon.
> 
> As a warning, though, one thing about long hiatuses is that where this story was meant to go may completely change or be nonexistent, so for now we'll just have to wait and see where this leads us.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> TIA/Megu

If there was anything 'strange' that Nils believed in, it was magic.

It wasn't strange in the sense that Nils actually believed in magic, for Eiríkur did too. And for a while, Eiríkur wasn't too ashamed of it.

It was strange simply because magic is strange. Indescribable. Ethereal. Something that you couldn't believe in, so you looked at it with eyes wide open and declared it magic.

Magic was something that just was. And when it was lost, magic was something that just wasn't.

But whatever it was-- beautiful, superstition, or one of those maudlin displays trucked around the streets on Saturday afternoons, Nils believed in it with his whole heart.

Eiríkur's step-brother was not one to cry when he was moved, but one could tell when he was touched by something. A stillness would surround the older boy upon sight of a 'magical object,' and a soft glow would appear on Nils' cheeks. Eiríkur often imagined a small breeze that would run through Nils' hair. It was like Nils had absorbed the 'magic' itself.

And for a while, Eiríkur could take it in, too.

He remembered those bucolic landscapes where he and Nils would sit together in silence, watching specks of dandelions blow away into the heavens and letting the long grass tickle the back of their necks. To scare Eiríkur a little, Nils often told him that the tickling came from hungry baby trolls looking for a snack, which would make Eiríkur shudder and hug his knees while Nils chuckled to himself and turned his attention back to the sky. It was at this point that Eiríkur was left to his own devices with the young trolls climbing up and down his spine.

Eiríkur would be afraid. He would stomp his feet against the grass and pout, whining at Nils to make the troll go away. The boy was not sure if that strange tickling sensation was truly the trolls or his small shudders of (unnecessary) panic, which only made it even worse. He'd look to Nils for help, who would turn to face him with a small smirk, the meaning behind his dark eyes clouded in what Eiríkur could only assume was the 'magic' at work again.

For that little while, Eiríkur believed in it with all his heart.

But then Nils would turn back towards the sky once more and let out a small chuckle.

"You're so gullible."

The 'magic' would drop dead onto the ground, and Eiríkur would wake up with a start.

This was where the dreams ended. This was where possibilities, the past, and Eiríkur's imagined future slipped away like that supposed 'magic' Nils used to tease him with back when they were both young.

Before Eiríkur had to pretend he wasn't.

And that? That was the very reason that he was now lying awake in bed, listening to the Bulgarian snore loudly into his pillow on the other side of the room.

Eiríkur figured that in a few minutes that snoring would only get louder, thus prolonging his hours awake and shortening his hours of peaceful rest (or rather, as peaceful as it got in buildings like these). Given that Eiríkur liked waking up early after having some decent hours of sleep, he decided to return to the window where he had positioned himself close to only a few hours before retiring to bed.

The boy quite liked being near the window, especially in the space surrounding it that remained free of sweaty clothes and dinner stains, and not to mention to strong smell of alcohol that permeated the entire room. He liked the fresh, cool air at night that he could only get from an opening towards civilization, when the city finally decided to live and let live and make a little room for the sky.

Naturally, the freedom of the skies back home was one of the things that Eiríkur missed. Sure, there were the houses and shops and schools that frequented his hometown, but never had he seen here endless, vast wastelands where a single road to nowhere trailed away, or steep, mountainous backdrops filled with cracks and crevices to remind them all where the end of the world was.

It was funny. Mountains and roads were the very things that Eiríkur let fade away before he came here, but when he needed a memory to remind him where he came from, these were the things he thought of.

These were the things that he would see outside the window during evenings like these.

Tonight was certainly no exception.

Soon, Eiríkur found himself away from the window and far, far away from the tenement, magically landing upon the familiar tall grass he used to hide in all the time. He looked up and saw above him a starry fog, and he gazed at them for a while without longing, nor wishing, nor mourning, but with a sense of content that slowly settled over him. Not a thought was in his head, nor any troubles crinkling his brow.

He just was. And yet at the same time, he just wasn't. For what seemed like an eternity, there was Eiríkur Ólafsson, son of Ólaf, whoever he was, in the state of being and not being as he was seated on the grass and beneath the stars.

Eiríkur was feeling the magic that Nils' pranks told him were silly little lies and he was enjoying every moment of it. At that very second, magic was real and he could feel it. No one and nothing, not even his younger self, could tell him otherwise.

Nothing, that is, but a quiet rustling next to him as a figure sat down next to him. Eiríkur glanced towards the figure upon his arrival, instantly recognizing the scuffed black work shoes that Nils used to wear all over town. It was him. It had to be him. It-- what was he doing here, anyway?

His thoughtless, carefree state-of-being quickly shattered, turning into alertness. Was Nils back to ruin the magic for him? Or was he--

Eiríkur craned his neck and whipped around to face his new companion, only to freeze upon seeing the burning, golden eyes and choppy, dark hair of some poltergeist that (if Eiríkur could recall) left him with a very aggravating afternoon just hours ago.

“Hey,” said the poltergeist, and once more the magic was lost.

Instead, Eiríkur found himself rubbing his lower back as he got up from the ground and back onto the chair he had apparently fallen off of. Magic was now beginning to look more like a burden.

The boy groaned and rubbed his eyes before looking back out the window, while his ears picked up the soft lilt of a woman giggling from below. Eiríkur peeked over the window and down below, where he saw the angry Hungarian woman from across the street smile and wave up at him. He awkwardly waved back, a little more used to hearing the same young woman hurl insults every evening towards whom he now knew as Ștefan.

“Good to see you're still awake!” The woman called from below. “I was worried that you might fall out of the window!” A couple car horns blasted in the distance. Otherwise, New York seemed a bit more... still. It must have been four in the morning, Eiríkur figured, or else he would have had more trouble understanding the woman's words.

Eiríkur finally replied, “No, it's all right, Mis--”

“Erzsébet, dear, though I assume that idiot must have given away a bit too early with all that racket he makes at my door,” the woman quickly corrected him, then added, “I like to just be Erzsébet, though... Hm... Oh! You can even call me Bözsi, too, if you feel like it. Even 'miss' makes me feel much too old! You might want to start calling me 'Erzsébet' in your head, things can slip out sometimes.”

“Alright then, Erzsébet.” Eiríkur complied, slightly startled by the woman's interruption. 

“Much better. Anyway, it's a bit worrisome to see you hanging out of there for that long, especially since you're high u-- sorry, what is your name?”

“Eiríkur.”

“Thank you, Eiríkur--Ah, you were the one from Ștefan's stupid concert today, weren't you? So this is where I've seen you. As I was saying, I always see someone hanging out of that window, and I think it must have been you! It surprises me that you haven't fallen out yet—do you ever sleep in your own bed?”

“I like the window, I guess.” Eiríkur defended himself weakly. “It's the only place where I can get fresh air.” The boy paused for a moment, trying to decide how much more he would reveal about the window's utmost significance to his life. “Reminds me of home,” he eventually responded.

“Ah, I see! Where are you from?”

“Iceland,” Eiríkur said without hesitating, “I live somewhat close to Reykyavik.”

“Oh!” Erzsébet said. She tapped her chin, looking as if she was thinking about something, then looked back up and asked, “The viking place, am I right?”

Eiríkur objected to his homeland being referred to as “the viking place,” but nodded anyway.

“I am good at this!” cheered Erzsébet. “My father once told me they say you have some incredible stories from where you're from, and that it's absolutely gorgeous! I'm very jealous!”

“Thanks, I guess.” Yet Eiríkur didn't think “Icelandic stories” were that special. Such a sentiment was quickly detected by Erzsébet when she asked, “What, you don't like them very much?”

“It's not that,” replied Eiríkur with a shake of the head, “more like I'm probably to used to them, I guess.”

“I see, I see,” Erzsébet said with a nod, “That is understandable. Everyone lives differently, right?”

“Right.”

A moment of awkward silence. Eiríkur was beginning to realize that he wasn't very good at continuing conversations, especially when his conversational partner was several stories below him.

Erzsébet, thankfully, was.

“So... how long have you been here?” she asked him, lazily playing with her lip.

“A few months to half a year,” replied Eiríkur. “... And you?”

“I don't remember, honestly,” said Erzsébet, “Long enough to get used to here, but not long enough to forget where I came from, I would think—Both a good thing and a bad thing.”

Eiríkur was perplexed. “Why would it be a bad thing?”

“Well,” Erzsébet quickly replied, “there are just too many people for our government in Austria-Hungary to take care of, meaning even true Hungarians like my family aren't so lucky back home. I came here with my brother,” she boasted, “He's a very hard-worker or otherwise we must bless us all.”

As far as he could remember, Eiríkur had never seen Erzsébet with another man besides Ștefan. So, without thinking, he asked, “Does your brother live with you?”

The woman blinked a couple times, then sighed and shook her head sadly. “Not now, he does not. He went off with another Hungarian man out west for more work, he said. He.... how do I say this? He likes to always be on his feet. Last I heard he was headed towards... I think it was called Ohill?”

“O...hill?”

“Yes, yes, something like th-- wait, no, _Ohio!”_ Erzsébet pronounced every syllable of this new word with care. “He said he was going to Ohio.”

“Oh.”

“I know, right? He's very smart, but I never know what he is thinking or if he is just getting lost. To make a point, if Ohio was worth going to why don't they write about it in letters? Or rather, why didn't my great-grandfather mention it in his letter?”

“Your great-grandfather was here?”

“Oh! I didn't mention, did I?” Erzsébet chuckled. “Yes, yes, my great-grandfather came to America to look for gold, and never came back since. Either he was very lucky and did not want to share or he was not very lucky. That is all I know of him, at least.”

“I see.” Eiríkur took a deep breath and said, “I have a brother here also. Or... at least, I think I do.” He figured that if Erzsébet was going to be open with him, it was only fair if he returned the favor.

Upon seeing Erzsébet's confused expression (or as much as he could tell from where he was standing), Eiríkur hastily added, “We didn't come here at the same time.”

However, Erzsébet was still perplexed. “Then how do you know he's here?”

“Well.” Eiríkur sighed, suddenly remembering that talking about his step-brother made him really uncomfortable. “He...Well. He's not the best person in the world, but he keeps his word when we need him to the most, I guess...But... But that doesn't mean he's not someone to worry about. So...” the boy shrugged. “That would be how I ended up here.”

“O-ho, I understand now,” Erzsébet responded with a laugh, “That's cute, that relationship you have there.”

“I didn't mention a relationship.”

“No, no, but from the way you talk of him I could see it,” explained Erzsébet, “I just think it's cute that you would follow him around like that!”

“I'm not following him,” replied Eiríkur, now slightly indignant.

“No, no, I know, I was joking!” Erzsébet smiled and winked at him before continuing. “But truthfully, do you at least want to find him?”

Eiríkur could feel something sink in his chest. He knew that Erzsébet probably didn't mean him to feel sad about anything, but he couldn't help himself. Something in the back of his mind was knocking, and he had to truly will himself to suppress it.

With mental effort, Eiríkur pushed away whatever was bothering him and finally responded,“Well.... yes.... I suppose so.”

“Hmm...” Erzsébet pretended to be deep in thought at first, but soon after she looked up towards Eiríkur as a sly grin appeared on her face, which Eiríkur was quick to address with a “What?”

“Have you... ever... met a...”

“What?”

“Have you happened to meet a man named Mr. Kirkland?”

“Mr. Kirkland?”

“Yes, Mr. Kirkland!” Erzsébet cried out. “He writes for papers here and he's sometimes a little grumpy, but he's a very nice man once you get to know him! He certainly helped me when my brother and I first came here!”

Upon hearing the word “grumpy,” Eiríkur grew a bit skeptical. Sure enough, Erzsébet had added that this Mr. Kirkland was only a “little grumpy,” but he had also once heard that living in America was a “little difficult.” Now he was in a cramped tenant, mismatched with three other men, jobless, and still sibling less in a life that was apparently only a “little difficult.” “Little” didn't seem too “little” to Eiríkur at all.

Nonetheless, Eiríkur didn't want to completely discourage Erzsébet, so he decided upon asking, “How exactly would he help me?”

“Many ways!” she replied, clearly convinced that “Mr. Kirkland” was bound to be Eiríkur's saving grace. “He also has other roundabout ways of doing it too--it's quite interesting to see the tricks and strings he pulls.”

Eiríkur was still unsure. “I suppose?”

Erzsébet smiled and shook her head. “You're a very doubtful kid, aren't you?”

Just as Eiríkur was about to answer, Erzsébet said, “Well, I'm some who won't take no for answer, so I guess I'll have to take you to see him, then!”

“Wait, wh-”

“Tomorrow, even!” Erzsébet clapped her hands together and rubbed them mischievously. “And don't think you can hide from me up there in your room—a woman like me always has her ways!”

“Um... O-okay...” Something about Erzsébet's phrasing made Eiríkur very uncomfortable, but by now it was much too late for Eiríkur to consider pointing it out. He opted thus to let Erzsébet hold the reins and finish whatever she had to say—that is, if she did have anything else to say in the first place.

And she did.

“So, I'll be right at the door at ten in the morning, then-- we'll see if we're lucky and we catch him, how about it?”

“S-sure?” Eiríkur stammered. What was he getting himself into?

“Absolutely perfect! I'll see you tomorrow morning, but for now you should probably sleep. Also, I've had my share of fresh air, so I probably will too. Good night, dear!”

“Night!” Eiríkur quietly called after Erzsébet as she walked back into her own building. When the door to Erzsébet's tenement looked completely closed, Eiríkur pulled his head out of the window, stretching and yawning. The snoring in the room had become more tolerable (most likely due to how loud Erzsébet spoke to him to be sure he could hear her from up where he was). The mess in the room didn't seem too daunting, though by now it was probably because it was too dark to tell. Eiríkur looked around the room sleepily, then sauntered back into his own bed and kicked the covers onto himself.

As his lids closed and his mind began to wander, Eiríkur tried to puzzle out Erzsébet's eagerness, especially after being so used to her more belligerent side when she was arguing with Ștefan. Could he trust her? After all, he had only formally met her a few moments ago, and the last two people he had moments ago, namely a certain Romanian fiddler and a fire-eyed jerk, both had something about that was just a little... off. Eiríkur was now a little too deep into his sleep to figure out what exactly put those two off of him, but he knew for sure that his gut instinct, tried and tested, tended to be right.

Whether it could get a read on things in the first place, however, was an entirely separate question; as far as Eiríkur was concerned, Erzsébet seemed to be one of the people that took a very long time for one to figure out. Eiríkur would have to credit his patience with his own step-brother's complexities if he should continue solving the enigma of Erzsébet Héderváry.

But instincts, formalities, and new “friends” aside, whatever was about to occur could only mean one thing for sure:

Tomorrow, or rather today, would be a long, long day. Eiríkur's mind sensed this well enough, and before another thought could keep him awake he had fallen away from the realm of his tenement and back into the night.

Back into a magical world of dreams.  


End file.
